It's Never Twins
by redvelvetscissors
Summary: After Eurus, Sherlock's life cannot be the same. With John travelling for work a lot, he finds that cases have once again lost their allure. However, when Mycroft introduces him to a girl who reminds him of Mary, he is determined things go differently this time. Her parents' secretive lives and the attention of Irene Adler provide him with a new distraction and brings John home.
1. Chapter 1

As it turned out, the rumours were absolutely true – Mycroft Holmes _is_ the British Government. The brutally polished mahogany of the walls and a collection of staggeringly costly perfumes formed a choking concoction in Jasmine's throat, the lack of any fresh air not doing much to dispel the anxiety in her stomach. Yanking tight her ponytail, she shifted the stack of papers about in her arm and sniffed. She tried to block out the gathering chatter on all sides, urgent and insistent. Raising her balled fist, she knocked. In gold lettering, somehow still demure against the wood, a nametag tied together all of her deepest fears about her placement: _Mycroft Holmes_.

"Come in," the words were drawn out, bored almost. His Eton days were etched into them. Jasmine twisted the doorknob with far more care than necessary, almost dropping her papers. Slipping inside, she smiled madly at who she supposed was her new boss. He did not look up.

"Good morning, uh, sir. I'm your work experience for the week…"

"Mm, I think, perhaps, you are in the wrong place. I don't _do_ 'work experience'." He still had not glanced up, pen still furiously scribbling away. Panic sank like a stone in Jasmine's stomach, her heart pounding against her ribs.

"Sorry, sir, but my father said that-" she broke off when Mycroft pressed his pen too hard into the paper, a dense patch of ink spraying over the document he was working on. His head snapped up, a retort on his lips desperate to escape. But something in his stretched mind clicked, disdainful annoyance replaced by regret barely concealing frustration.

"Ah, yes. I do apologise, Miss Carter, please sit down." He gestured to a small, creaking leather seat. She slid into it as quickly as she could. Instinct told her to offer a handshake, but he had already turned to the shelves behind him. That he owed so many favours to spies and other freelancers was a constant source of irritation and this wispy girl in loafers and cashmere was no exception. He eyed her curiously, fighting the urge to mutter to himself at the girl's twitchy nervousness and watery eyes set in a pale face. Sliding a few documents across the desk towards her, he watched in silence while she read through and signed. Every so often, he would chuckle darkly as she came across some clause or another on the various ways she might be involved in breaches of national security.

"So, Miss Carter, what you will be doing this week is cataloguing these," every word he spoke drew out until it was almost ridiculous. He indicated a set of files against the far wall, yellowed with age and overflowing with torn pages. "There is no part of this department to which I can fully grant you access and for that, I do apologise." She thought he looked distinctly unapologetic, but said nothing to object. She nodded, fixing her gaze just above him on the wall.

"I understand," she said quickly.

"I assume you are no stranger to the Official Secrets Act. I will provide you with a suitable computer and have one of my people show you how. It's just… expenses receipts, things of that nature." Standing suddenly, he strode to the door and bade her follow, leading her down a narrow corridor into a small, musty room that badly needed renovation. Leaving her alone, he hurried off and returned a few moments later with a laptop and cable. While he was gone, Jasmine allowed her hands and thighs to unclench, letting out a long-held breath in shaky bursts.

Mycroft was trailed by a young man, no more than a few years older than Jasmine with a more subdued, but similar, terrified expression. He set up Jasmine's station, ran her through the logging process of a few of the files and left her to it, eager to be back to his office. Already, her back began to ache in the chair, but, after a cursory check of her wellbeing, Mycroft left her to her work. After less than an hour, every word, every amount spent and reclaimed seemed to blur together into one. She had no idea why they might need to have these records so long after they had been filed – her jaw fully dropped open when she found a file from the late nineties that somehow still needed to be kept around.

Her lunch break came and went, her sandwich surprisingly tasteless even against the monotony of the work. Anxiety gave way to annoyance and disbelief at her irrationality that morning as she rifled through folder after folder. Boredom tugged at her eyes, luring her wickedly into sleep.

Somehow, four o'clock approached. The pounding of the clock brought tension to her head, her aching shoulders pulling on her neck. Even though she knew what favour her father had called in to get her work experience week sorted with someone of Mycroft's standing, she began to wonder if it was worth working somewhere where every other word of her job description had to be redacted. Restlessness set into her limbs, so she rose from her seat and busied herself pretending to sort through the stacks. Mileage claim, mileage claim, extortionate hotel rates, mileage claim.

Rubbing at her temples, Jasmine sighed. Four more days, twenty eight more hours of logging decades-old files was not the glamorous week she had been hoping for. Gathering up the files as the bells of Big Ben sounded, she imagined her friends at their placements in libraries, schools that were not their own or even other civil offices where they might be able to experience some actual work. Under strict instructions from Mycroft to return the folders to his office before she left, she shuffled down the hall, cursing her throbbing shoulders and rapped more boldly than she had that morning. She was met with the same answer to enter, although decidedly more frustrated than it had been. Curious, she slipped inside and resisted the urge to clap a hand over her mouth at the sight that beheld her. On further and less anxious observation, Mycroft's office was not an office, but a comfortable, even elaborate room padded out with art, leather-bound books and an impressive collection of spirits. Behind the desk, Mycroft glowered petulantly across to a guest with his back to Jasmine. The thick shock of black curls poked at something in her memory, although Mycroft's aggressive words (mingled with something bordering on pleading) brought her back to reality.

"I am being serious, Sherlock, I am facing an extraordinary amount of pressure from Stirco's family," he paused, and then continued, as if needing to clarify, "it's sentiment." Jasmine tilted her head as she recalled why she knew the name Stirco.

"And as I told you," Sherlock's voice was deeper and smoother than Mycroft's although, Jasmine grinned to herself when she noticed, it contained no smaller amount of childlike argument. "I am working on it." He pronounced every word perfectly.

"I'd have thought you'd be finished already. You're not quite so distracted these days."

Sherlock let out edged grunt of offense. Neither of them had noticed Jasmine, so she cleared her throat as loudly as she could.

"Excuse me, Mr Holmes?"

They both turned to face her and said "Yes?"

Sherlock stared at her in a mixture of confusion and derision. Scoffing, Mycroft emerged from behind the desk and took the files from her. As he put them away, realisation hit Jasmine as to where she knew 'Stirco' from. Boldness seized her between Sherlock's mutterings.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't help but hear, were you talking about James Stirco?"

"You know, it really isn't any of _your_ concern," Mycroft began to dismiss her for the day, when Sherlock cut him off.

"Yes," he sniffed and straightened his coat collar. "Mycroft thinks I'm not solving the case quickly enough."

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, this is Jasmine Carter, my … 'work experience', courtesy of Edward and Nora Carter."

"Ah-ha, so you're the girl who's been causing my big brother such _trouble_ these few weeks." Sherlock's voice was gleeful, his eyes bright and shining.

"Uh, yes, I-"

"So, what do you make of this?" ripping a chair away from Mycroft's desk, he spun it around and collapsed onto it, long legs splaying across the floor. Rubbing his temples, Mycroft busied himself in an email to avoid the conversation unfolding in front of him. "Man murdered, no witnesses, no _immediate_ suspects. One son, one ex-wife, good relationship with each other but not the dead man. A set of six puzzles to lead the police to the murderer, leads to the son. Son has an airtight alibi. Provably, even by me, out of the country. No other possible murderer, so how does that work?"

"Twins," Jasmine said immediately. By the time she'd realised what she'd said, she blushed furiously under Sherlock's piercing haze.

"It's never twins," he replied. In his eyes was a challenge to continue.

"Except in this case," she said, bravery returning, "I knew him. Well, my parents did. The Stircos had twins but had to abandon one while they were on the run from the Belgian government agents, escape gone wrong. They never recorded the birth."

"I didn't think anyone else knew that," Mycroft said softly.

"You knew?" Sherlock said in outrage, "why didn't you tell me?"

"It was _funny_. Watching you squirm. I informed Lady Stirco weeks ago." They stared at each other for a moment before sharing an uneasy grin. Shock and horror invaded Sherlock's face. John's taunting took centre stage in his mind as he realised that it was, in fact, sometimes twins. Swivelling back towards Jasmine, he stared, open mouthed, at her for a moment before leaping to his feet and shrugging on his coat. Sniffing and bidding Mycroft goodbye, he left quickly.

After hailing a taxi, Sherlock sat, elbows on his knees and hands clasped against his lips. Disbelief was not an emotion to which he was accustomed, and it stung bitterly at his vibrating thoughts. _Twins_. Mycroft, having spent weeks in complaint of having to conduct work experience, clearly was oblivious to the talent that sat logging files or whatever he had her doing. He had half a mind to drop in on his brother again should something else that week have him stumped. Although, he imagined John would be less than pleased about him sparring with intellect after meeting Eurus. The thought immediately turned sour as he pulled into Baker Street and saw, once again, the lights dim and unused.

As if John was around anymore to find out.


	2. Chapter 2

"So," Lady Smallwood couldn't hide the grin that pushed its way onto her face. "How was it?"

"It was," Mycroft paused, rubbing his temples and looking up from his desk. It was getting late and, so far, the security footage that needed monitoring had not diminished no matter how much work he had done. "It was fine."

"I hear she's rather wonderful. That's her father saying that, of course, but he's a very perceptive man."

"Yes," Mycroft replied after a moment, "my brother seemed rather taken with her thought process. I fear I shall have to loan her to him to keep him occupied."

"That might not be a terrible thing," Lady Smallwood said. "he's not been the same since Dr Watson took on that job of his."

"Quite," Mycroft answered. They sank back into silence, the only sounds the intrusive clacking of two keyboards and the occasional clearing of a throat. As six o'clock came and went, Lady Smallwood rose from her chair and, to release the growing tension in her temples, left in search of their resident bartender. A nice top-shelf should do it. Grease the wheels, as it were.

Hands clasped around his face; Mycroft felt his eyes shutter as he combed through yet another set of security footage. Cursing the fool who allowed such a small thing as illness keep him away from his job and force it upon his superior, Mycroft let out a wilting sigh. He considered following Lady Smallwood, but one stretch of his aching legs discounted that. She wasn't long, hurrying back to her desk with a glimmering crystal glass in one hand and another stack of files with the PM's return address label on it in the other.

"So," she broke the silence as she sat down, nerves evident on her face, "is everything truly done with…Sherrinford?"

Mycroft's head whipped up; his shock almost successfully hidden behind a schooled mask of indifference. A deep breath was followed by a moment of reflection.

"Yes. She is secure this time. I made sure of it."

"Good. We kept it as quiet as we could," she assured him, unsure of anything else that might be said. He nodded in response. Then, after a few seconds of tumultuous thoughts, he continued.

"Please don't take what I am about to tell you as a moment of sentiment on my part." He waited for her to nod her acquiescence. "But Sherlock is…concerning. After Mary, I believed he could not sink any further and, thus far, I was correct. However, with John otherwise engaged, it is not out of the question that he might relapse. Again."

Mycroft watched Lady Smallwood closely, admiring the reservation that she showed in her reaction. Lips pursed, she let her brow tense and relax in thought a few times before looking up and moving to face him. She sat beside him and held his eye.

"Okay, I cannot pretend to understand your brother in the ways that you do, but – what in hell?" the shrillness of her voice startled him into flinching. Snapping his head around to beg her explain herself, Mycroft was still too stunned to argue when she clapped a hand on the side of his face and guided his eye towards the surveillance screens. Jabbing a finger against the monitor, she waited for him to register what she had seen.

Although grainy and pixilated, the forming words were obvious. Big red letters, and all that.

"What the…" Mycroft's voice was barely more than a whisper.

"So, you're still having him tracked, then?" Lady Smallwood raised her eyebrows and smiled behind a hand.

"Naturally. My word, my brother is reaching new heights of linguistic creativity." Following a fully formed C U, an N was taking shape. Mycroft could never remember his brother ever saying this word – despite his insistence that illicit language was an illogical construct to bore humanity into submission – but he could imagine Sherlock's delight at sullying a screen with it.

"He's bored." Lady Smallwood squinted, disbelieving that this might have never occurred to Mycroft until now.

"Yes, I am aware. John was a more than adequate distraction for a number of years but even goldfish have their limit. Apparently, that limit is Sherlock's untameable boredom without the looming threat of Moriarty following him around."

"Well, you can spend your days spying on him with state-funded equipment," she gave a disdainful glance towards the array of technology used for Mycroft's family feuds. "Or, you can use something else at your disposal."

He shot her a questioning look. She rolled her eyes and watched him for a moment.

"Some say fate is for the desperate and the naïve. But I watched something drop a brilliant clever, if somewhat wispy, girl into your office this morning. Call her and put her to use."

She got up and searched around her desk, sliding more dainty china pots filled with pens and page markers than she remembered being there the previous day aside until she found it, a small white card embossed with elegant black calligraphy. _Maximillian J Carter_. She slid it across the desk and watched Mycroft until he took it, examining it as if it might contain some universal secret within its fibres.

"His home number," she explained coolly. "I'm certain he won't mind."

"Right," Mycroft finally agreed and slipped the card into the inside pocket of his overcoat, dangled over the back of his chair.

"She'll make a wonderful companion to your brother. Provide some sort of buffer for the victims of crimes he so loves to antagonise. Who knows, she might even like the baby."

"Oh, I have no doubt she will. Not that she strikes me as the type who might be at home at a crime scene," he couldn't suppress the knotted ball of laughter in his throat.

"Quite, but that's for Sherlock to take up with her. Now, I'm off for the evening. Give that girl a call and the greatest intellectual opportunity she will ever receive. Or perhaps the worst nightmare she will ever suffer through. Either way, until tomorrow."

Lady Smallwood shrugged on her coat, a beautiful woollen piece in navy blue and silver trim and cast a cursory glance over her desk. Giving Mycroft a final, insistence look at his phone on the desk, she finished off the last of her drink, slamming down the glass and slipping out of the door. Alone, Mycroft scrolled quickly through his files and closed them all. All that remained was Sherlock's tracker, now moving on to some of the longer, more obscure obscenities. He sighed, rubbing his eyes.

With a certain degree of reluctance, he dialled the number on the card and waited impatiently as it rang. A man with a smooth, non-descript – purposefully, as Mycroft suspected – voice answered.

"Hello, Max Carter speaking."

"Good evening, Agent P. This is Mycroft Holmes." He paused momentarily and cursed himself. "I need to speak to your daughter."


	3. Chapter 3

It was not the first time that Jasmine had watched a sleek black Jaguar, polished expertly down to its tinted back windows, pull up surreptitiously to the front of her house. Their driveway led away from the road in twists and turns, moving up to the house where it spread out into a semi-circle, totally hidden from the outside by a thick cluster of evergreens. From the car stepped a familiarly non-descript man, tanned skin perfectly smooth in spite of his frown, expensive if dull suit painstakingly tailored to fit his exact outline. Her father had been waiting for him, she could tell – he had been too quick to answer the door not to have been lingering in the foyer.

When the phone in the study had rung the night before, shock gripped her body when her father had hung up, strolled slowly to her room and sat, solemnly, across from her. A request had been made by someone very high up in the government for her presence across town – at 221B Baker Street, to be precise. She had been in Sherlock Holmes' company for less than fifteen minutes but the chaotic, manic energy rolling off him appealed to her infinitely more than his brother's cold, cool demeanour. Although nerves beat at her stomach as she shook the hand of the suited man, hope of a far more interesting day than the one before gave her some relief. Wishing her luck, her father closed the car door behind and smiled at her through the tinted glass.

The drive into London wasn't a long one, but the endless stream of concrete and traffic started to chip away at Jasmine's patience. By the time they pulled into Baker Street, her thoughts had drifted over every topic that she knew of, even a few she hadn't expected, and had landed on the detective she was to meet. Mycroft had told her precisely nothing about him, only what she had gleaned from the internet and their brief meeting the previous day. His reputation, however, had spread all over London as someone of difficult and aloof disposition – a right bastard to work with, basically.

The driver opened the door for her and gave her a curt nod. When he didn't wait for her to follow him, she scurried through the door the man had somehow opened and up the stairs after him. He slipped in a thin key that definitely didn't look like it should fit the lock and pushed the flat door open halfway, not making any move to follow her. She took a few steps in and stopped, stunned.

It was a total hell hole.

Puzzled, Jasmine stepped further into the flat. Sherlock Holmes' reputation had surged a few years before and his brilliant intellect had become famous, and Jasmine had presumed that he would be put together. But shock prodded at her stomach as she looked around. Piles of books and papers, crinkled and water-stained, made it almost impossible to move around the place. Dishes, unwashed and stacked high, sat on every surface. Tobacco dust was scattered across the carpet.

In the centre of the room, huddled in a tight ball, a spindly man with a mop of curly hair sat humming a strange melody to himself.

"Um, excuse me, Mr Holmes?" Jasmine's voice was timid and she was almost sure she hadn't caught his attention until he flicked his head towards the door.

"No, thank you, Mrs Hudson, no tea today." He grumbled.

"Oh, sorry, have I got the wrong flat? I'm-"

"Don't care not helpful not a case!" he was shouting, eyes ablaze but there was no anger there. He leapt to his feet. Stammering, Jasmine stared, open-mouthed, at him. Words fought for space in her mouth but none won out. Instead, she went for more confused staring.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Sherlock said suddenly, sniffing and shaking his head. Jasmine saw his thoughts firing rapidly across his face. He was unshaven and his bright eyes appeared to sink into his face.

"Uh, I'm Jasmine. Carter." She stared at him for a moment, mind absolutely devoid of thoughts as she felt him watching her. "Um, Mycroft sent me. I think."

Sherlock ran his hands down his face and sighed, deeply and decidedly annoyed. Shaking his head and wringing his hands painfully tightly, he watched her for a moment more and then grinned widely. An air of ecstatic realisation of potential came over him almost instantaneously. He threw off his dressing gown onto the chair and strode away. Stopping in the door way very briefly, he pinned Jasmine with a blazing look and bid her wait where she was.

For longer than she was proud of, Jasmine stared at the place where Sherlock had last been, only stopping when her brow began to ache and her open mouth dried out. In what little time she'd had the night before, she'd researched Sherlock, scouring the internet for any piece of information about him. At first, she thought she did it so that she might impress him. But, as she cast another reserved glance around the flat, she considered that she might have taken the rumours going around about London's most famous detective a little too close to heart.

Just as her frustration reached fever pitch, Sherlock returned, a changed man. Gone was the threadbare set of pyjamas and matted hair, replaced with calculated smoothness. Somehow, he was shaved and clean, although Jasmine didn't remember hearing the shower in the ten minutes he was gone.

"So, _Jasmine_, my dear brother sent you, did he?"

"Yes. Sir."

"Sir! My god, you are going to be fun. Now, first things first. What do you make of this?" he grabbed a mish-mashed pile of papers from a coffee table and thrust them at Jasmine. His eagle eye latched onto her as she read, her eyes tripping up as the pressure began to grow.

_Okay, what's all this for? _She thought to herself, mentally flipping through the details of the case. Two murders. Exact same time. Nothing taken, nothing damaged. Both men seemingly killed by each other – incontrovertible evidence that it could only be them – with nothing implicating anyone else. Someone called DI Gary Lestrade – she thought some other name had been crossed out beneath this – stumped. The only other information she'd been given, photographs from the scene.

And something else. A thin black line on the back of the wrist – so easily mistaken for an ink spot. Nothing so suspicious that anyone would consider it. Especially on such an expertly executed body – too many dead end clue to look for.

"They were both hitmen. Hired to kill each other. Lived near each other by coincidence and chose the same building for their, uh, job." Jasmine barely stopped to breathe as she spoke, hands suddenly shaking.

Sherlock watched her still, and then nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Very good."

"I've seen that mark before, on some people who worked for my dad." Jasmine explained.

"Oh, yes, I know," Sherlock replied.

"What? I thought that said," she flicked through the scant notes, "'police have no idea'."

"Yes, I did. _I_, on the other hand, dedicated a whole three days to the case. Solved it eventually, though." She blinked back her surprise and then, against her instincts, let out a giggle. "And that is fascinating. You solved it faster than I did – and that, I'll never admit again. You have as much inside knowledge of the inner workings of this government or that as my brother, and yet you are so much more promising."

"Promising? I'm sorry, but you can't-"

"Do you want to go to a crime scene?" Sherlock flung himself towards the door, shrugging on his coat and fiddling with the collar. Staring at him, Jasmine let him feel her disapproving gaze, until something else attacked her senses.

A tinny noise. A woman. A highly puzzling noise. From Sherlock's coat pocket. Irritation returned in full force to his face, lips pursing in resigned annoyance. Something like blushing crept up his cheeks, although no genuine colour was there.

"What was that?" Jasmine asked, cautiously. He took the phone from his pocket and tapped at it a few times, venting his anger through his phone screen.

"A highly persistent and intelligent pain in the arse."

"Okay. I more meant the noise…" she trailed off as she watched his face contort, agonising over a reply. "Oh."

"What?" the smoothness of his voice was edged with long-standing weariness.

"It's someone special. Someone you like."

"Special she is. Infuriatingly determined, she is. Someone I like, well that depends on whether you think a dominatrix who sells anti-terrorist information to a madman is generally likeable." Sherlock said it all as if it were nothing, ignoring Jasmine's expression of horror. He wondered if his brother had done his due diligence when it came to this girl's constitution, but the fact that she had agreed to do _work experience_ with Mycroft Holmes assuaged his fears.

"Oh, okay," Jasmine said, trying hard to hide her scepticism. There was silence. The air was heavy and uncomfortable, and relief flooded through Jasmine's veins when Sherlock spoke again.

"So, crime scene?" he already had one leg out of the door and he was suddenly visibly anxious to _go_ somewhere. Jasmine nodded and followed silently.

As she watched him hail a taxi, his phone made that noise again. She smiled to herself.


End file.
